There are rules in my house for the holidays. (Actually, they’re not so much in my house as in my head. I do take them with me wherever I go.) Here’s what you have to do if you want to celebrate the holidays with me:

We do not talk of weight or diets during Christmas week. There are no “I shouldn’ts” or discussion of Weight Watchers points during this week. You have your whole life to diet. This type of food only happens once a year.

We do not yell at the cats for destroying the tree. It’s their house, too, and they’re not allowed to go outside. You’ve just brought a giant, six-foot cat toy into the house. If they want to chew on the pine needles and barf up green hairballs later, by golly, you will LET them!

We do not play holiday music in my presence unless it is Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. The exceptions to this are limited, and come down to:

“Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid.

“Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. (Note: ONLY this version is allowed. And no more than twice a season.)

“Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney (no more than once a season).

“You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft (most fun name EVER!)—however, if you compare me to the green, cranky one, I will stab you in the eye with a fork three sizes too small. Like a cocktail fork. Whatever. It'll hurt, that's all.

Note: I have been known to break up with radio stations forever for starting their holiday music crap right after Thanksgiving (it was nice knowing you, 106.5 WBMW).

If you want me to bring food to a holiday gathering, you have two choices:

spinach dip in a bread bowl

cookies (probably snickerdoodles)

There is no wavering from this list. If you call me a week before your scheduled event and ask me to bring a fancy pesto-puffed-pastry tree with dipping sauce that you’re just sure I’m talented and creative enough to make, you will get a bread bowl filled with spinach dip.Or nothing. You might get nothing. A pesto tree? Are you kidding?

Step out to the left, please. When the car stops, please step out to the left. (Wait. I think that's the rule for the old Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Disregard, please.)

You are welcome to wish me a Merry Christmas, a Happy Holiday, a Fabulous Festivus, a Happy Chewbacca, or whatever you wish to say to acknowledge the season. This is the one time of year when I will not be offended by your religious views. Knock yourself out.

Do not ask me to watch holiday specials with you. I do not like them. You cannot change my reaction to them. I will not enjoy them. I will heckle them. You will get angry and call me a Grinch. I will impale your eyeballs with my above-mentioned cocktail fork. It will end badly.

We have all been raised in a culture in which Disney has been synonymous with family fun and wholesome entertainment. I don’t quite know why this should be, as Disney films in particular can be pretty darn terrifying. Why Old Walt has been able to avoid his true genre label for this long is baffling. This is not a man who promoted bluebirds and happiness. This is a man who made horror movies.

Bambi, for instance. My mother took us to see this when it was rereleased in 1982, and it terrified the bejeepers out of me. Up until this point, I’d had no idea that mothers could die. I’d thought they were magical entities that would live forever. Until Bambi’s mom was shot by hunters.

My father was a hunter.

This was the same year I went to a child psychologist for the first time.

I was a little older when Sleeping Beauty was rereleased in 1986. At the mature, know-it-all age of 13, I figured a stupid kiddie movie wouldn’t scare me. That was until Maleficent transformed in to a giant black and purple dragon with eyes like molten lava and more teeth and claws than the Kardashian girls. I was not so big that I couldn’t hide under the seat, whimpering, for the rest of the movie. My big sister would have teased me mercilessly had she not been elbowing me out of the way to make room under the theater seat next to me. That dragon is still the scariest fairy tale creature I have ever seen to this day.

It isn’t just the villains – Cruella DeVil, the Wicked Stepmother with her warty face, Captain Hook, and even Kaa, the giant, Mowgli-eating snake in theJungle Book. (You will notice that I left Shere Khan and Scar off of the list as I firmly believe they are both big kittens at heart. Sorry, Walt. I refuse to believe cats are scary.) Mr. Disney also seems to be preoccupied with death. Sleeping Beauty and Snow White both fall in to death-like trances. Simba’s dad croaks (and don’t give me that ‘circle of life’ crap – when you start snuffing out fuzzy lions, you’re a real sicko.) The mother in Peter Pan, the mother in The Fox & The Hound, the mom in Cinderella…dead, dead, and dead. Ol’ Walt had some serious issues.

Of course, I’m leaving the scariest one for last. Who can forget the sweet tale of a young lad, left to protect his family when his father abandons them to go on a cattle drive, and learns the responsibilities of being a man and a provider with the help of his faithful dog, Old Yeller? That’s right, kids – before there was Cujo, there was Yeller, a rabid, snarling monster who wanted to rip out the throats of the very boys who had loved him and took care of him.

Sickening. Forget Hitchcock, or Corman, or Craven. Disney is truly the Master of Horror.